


hold me like you'll never let me go

by patrichor



Series: sbi stories [10]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Good Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Platonic Relationships, Protective Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Wilbur Soot, Tales From The SMP references, except karlnapity, for Wilbur and tommy, spoilers for recent streams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 04:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30133716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrichor/pseuds/patrichor
Summary: Seven hugs. Seven ways to say I love you.(week 1, prompt 2: hugging)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Karl Jacobs/Sapnap, Cara | CaptainPuffy & Foolish_Gamers, Ranboo & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & Ranboo, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Ranboo & Michael (Dream SMP), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: sbi stories [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2078391
Comments: 27
Kudos: 255
Collections: Completed stories I've read, DSMP Big Bang Bootcamp





	hold me like you'll never let me go

**Author's Note:**

> eyy quick bit of housekeeping
> 
> this is 100% about the characters, not the content creators don't be weirdchamp
> 
> i do include romantic karlnapity bc that's canon and also im a soft bitch, but i write tubbo and ranboo's marriage as platonic even if tubbo apparently said otherwise (?) bc i'm not personally comfortable writing it romantic and also queerplatonic relationships rep amiright :}
> 
> fun fact! this was originally my attempt at writing hurt/no comfort for the first time, but about halfway through puffy's section (which i wrote first) i was like hey actually no thanks, i can't do this :''

**One.** _A hug to say goodbye_

Phil’s ears are still ringing from the explosions, and for a moment he thinks he’s misheard. He stands frozen, ignoring the burning in his wings and the aches that he’s sure will bruise scattered elsewhere. None of that matters, because his son is standing in front of him unharmed- physically, at least. Phil doesn’t, can’t regret the damage he’s suffered because his wings are strong- how much worse would it have done to Wilbur, standing with his back pressed against the exploding wall?

There’s nothing Phil wouldn’t give up for his son’s sake, nothing he wouldn’t sacrifice if only it meant Wilbur staying alive. He’d fight any enemy for him, even if there wasn’t a chance of his own survival- but this? He’s completely out of his element. He’s a builder, and a fighter. He doesn’t know what to do when the enemy before him is his son’s own mind, tearing itself apart and convincing itself that he deserves death. That no one wants him alive.

Phil shakes his head in denial, stepping back as the sword clatters to the ground in front of him. Wilbur is still speaking, still begging for the one thing Phil would give anything to keep him from, but Phil can barely hear him over his own pounding heart.

He can’t do it. How could Wilbur ask this of him? How could he believe Phil could kill his own son? Does he think that lowly of his father, or rather.. does he think that lowly of himself, to believe himself just some creature to be put down? Phil shakes his head again as Wilbur grabs the sword from the ground and shoves its hilt into Phil’s hands, lifting the blade to aim at his chest before letting go and spreading his arms in invitation.

“You’re my son!” Phil shouts, pleads. He looks into Wilbur’s eyes, silently begging him to understand- Wilbur is his son. He can’t hurt him, he can’t lose his only child, not by his own hand or any other.  _ Please, son. Don’t make me do this. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. _

Wilbur is agitated now, shouting and gesturing at the destroyed land-  _ so much work, and I just destroyed it all. I’ll do it again, if you let me live. I’ll keep tearing down everything around me until you let me die, Phil. So just do it. Do it. _

He does it. He sees the pain in his boy’s eyes, sees the silent plea to make it stop- to  _ make the pain go away, like when I was little _ and he gives in. Gods forgive him, but he gives in.

The sound the sword makes slicing through Wilbur’s chest will haunt his dreams for as long as he lives. Every time he closes his eyes he sees the look on his son’s face as he staggers, the pain outweighed by sheer relief. Wilbur stumbles and Phil catches him-  _ has always caught him, would have always caught him _ \- and gently lowers him to the ground. He kneels, the ancient father grieving a son who still breathes, and settles Wilbur in his lap, holding him to his chest.

He’ll never get another chance to hold his son. Never get another chance to hear him sing or laugh, never get the chance to ruffle his hair or build lanterns with him again. He’s lost everything, by his own hand.

Wilbur had begged Phil to kill him.

It doesn’t make the guilt any less crushing.

Phil cradles his son as he begins to cough, blood dripping from his mouth. He winces with each cough, likely jolting the sword still in his body. Phil isn’t sure how to remove it without causing more pain, so he lets it be. He will never see his son again, and he doesn’t want his boy’s last moments to be filled with the pain he chose to die to escape.

Wilbur can barely talk, but he manages to force words out. He thanks Phil, genuine gratitude coloring his voice right alongside the streaks of agony, and Phil can hold back his tears no longer. He weeps, holding his son as tightly as he dares, and buries his face in matted brown curls.

His son’s breathing grows shallower and shallower, and his eyes drift partially closed. Phil cradles his face with a gentle hand, begging for him to stay awake a little longer-  _ please, don’t leave, I’m so sorry please son just stay awake _ \- but all Wilbur does is smile a little sadly.

“I love you,” Phil chokes out, unable to see much through the tears blurring his vision. “Wil, son, I love you so much.”

Wilbur’s eyes open a touch at that, and he has another coughing fit straining himself to speak but eventually manages to rasp, “Love… y’too.” His gaze becomes unfocused, and he breathes out.

He doesn’t breathe in again.

Phil clings to his son’s body and screams his grief to the heavens.

There is no answer.  
  


* * *

**Two.** _A hug to say I'll keep you safe_

Technoblade stands in his doorway, dislike poorly hidden as he watches Dream walk away. The admin has been coming around more often recently, and uneasy peace or not Techno is nearly ready to leave retirement for the express purpose of beating Dream into the ground.

He only moves back inside once Dream has vanished into the treeline, closing the door behind him and moving down several ladders to the raccoon hole, as he’s taken to calling the room Tommy dug out under his basement. He knocks on the stone blocking the entrance, and slides it to the side in order to enter.

“Dream’s gone.” He says by way of greeting as his eyes adjust to the dim light of a single torch clutched in shaking hands. “..Tommy?”

A small, choked sound answers him and he squints, just able to make out a form huddled on the bed, curled into as small a ball as possible. He sighs softly, moving slowly to avoid startling the boy as he settles himself on the floor near the foot of the bed.

“He’s gone.” He repeats, keeping his voice low and tone calm. “He didn’t find anything, either.”

There’s a minute of silence, and then a tiny voice answers him. “..He’ll come back. He always does.”

Techno hums in acknowledgement. “Sure, and I’ll send him away again.”

“He’ll find me.” Tommy breathes, huddling even tighter somehow. “He- he’ll always find me, and he’ll be so  _ mad _ -”

“I won’t let him.” Techno interrupts, knowing nothing good lies at the end of that train of thought. “C’mon, do you really think there’s anyone who can beat the Blade?” He’s not always fond of the nickname, but if it helps the boy calm down...

Tommy uncurls a little, eyes peeking out at Techno. “..No.” He answers eventually, and a bit of tension leaves his body.

Techno nods encouragingly. “That’s right. There’s no one stronger than me, and I won’t let anyone hurt you, okay? Not even Dream.”

There’s another minute or so of silence, and then Tommy sits up a little. “Promise?” He asks, eyes watching Techno intently.

Techno nods. “Promise.”

Tommy examines his face a moment longer, searching for any sign of a lie, and eventually uncurls himself more. “..Thanks.” He mutters, clearly uncomfortable with the emotional vulnerability he’s just shown.

_ You and me both, kid,  _ Techno thinks with vague amusement, and lifts his arm a little to invite Tommy to sit next to him. There’s another long moment of hesitation, and then the boy sidles over and lowers himself to sit on the floor, ducking under Techno’s arm and leaning into his side. He lets his arm rest loosely around Tommy’s shoulders, avoiding anything too close to restraining him, and is rewarded by a blond head coming to rest on his shoulder.

They sit there for long enough that Techno loses track of time, the kid loosening up over time until his breathing is slow and even and he occasionally twitches, mumbling nonsensical phrases in his sleep. Techno knows his back is going to hurt the longer he stays in this position, but somehow, as Tommy makes a soft noise and curls a little further into his side, he finds he doesn’t really mind.

* * *

**Three.** _A hug to say it's going to be okay_

Phil is on his way to L’Manberg to examine the ruins by the light of day when his wings pick up on something. Damaged and ruined as they are, they’re still far more sensitive to air currents and movement than the rest of him, and they tell him there’s a small opening hidden by water, with movement inside.

He’s tempted to just leave it be and continue on his way, until a distressed  _ vwoop  _ reaches his ears and gives him pause. There’s no reason an enderman would be somewhere enclosed by water, and he’d never heard one sound that upset before.

He finds the right spot and dives through the water, and as he emerges through the other side he’s abruptly thrown back in time to another small room with words on the walls and a spiraling boy. These walls are obsidian, not stone, and there are signs instead of carvings, but the sight of the tall hybrid huddled in a corner with his face hidden as he desperately tries to stop himself from crying still feels like a punch in the gut.

Phil can only stand for a minute, reeling, before he forces himself to focus and moves to crouch in front of Ranboo, sure to leave enough room that it doesn’t seem like he’s trapping him.

“Ranboo?” He asks, his voice gentle. “You alright, mate?”

Ranboo makes a sound somewhere between a warble and a sob, and Phil can feel his heart break a little more. The kid is shaking his head desperately, breathlessly repeating a phrase over and over, and Phil’s face falls as he hears the desperate insistence-

_ “It’s not real, you’re not real, it’s not real- it- stop it, please stop-” _

“Oh, Ranboo,” Phil breathes sadly, ignoring the dull pain that always rises when his feathers brush against something to extend his wing and rest it on Ranboo’s shoulder. The boy flinches at the touch and Phil hurriedly starts to pull back, but then Ranboo’s head is lifting and watery eyes peer at Phil. There’s a long moment before he sees recognition enter them, and he takes note of the burns trailing below the enderman hybrid’s eyes.

“..Phil?” Ranboo eventually whispers, and Phil smiles encouragingly.

“Heya, mate. You alright?”

After a long moment of hesitation, Ranboo slowly shakes his head. Phil hums softly, holding his arms open.

“Would a hug help? It’s alright if not, I just thought-”

He’s cut off by eight feet five inches of sobbing teenager colliding with his chest and clinging to him tightly, a sad smile crossing his face as he folds arms and wings around Ranboo alike. Phil rubs the teen’s back gently, rocking back and forth a bit as he cries into Phil’s shirt.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there, but he doesn’t much mind. For a moment his mind flashes back to the boy he’d failed in a room so alike to this one, the boy he’ll never be able to hold again, and he hugs Ranboo a little tighter. He failed his son, but he won’t fail another hurting child.

“It’s alright, mate.” He murmurs into two-toned hair, humming a soft tune as the hybrid’s trembling starts to lessen. “It’ll be alright.”

It will be alright. Phil will make sure of it.

* * *

**Four.** _A hug to say I don't want to lose you_

Karl’s memory has good days and bad days. On the good days, he’ll only forget details- things that could be chalked up to ordinary forgetfulness, or the blurring of time. On the bad days, he won’t know where he is or who’s around him. On the worst days, he doesn’t know his name.

The worst days are rare and remain that way, but more and more days are bad. Karl calls the people around him the wrong names often, though he only knows they’re wrong because of the pinched expression people get, like they want to correct him but can’t because they know he won’t remember anyway.

He forgets so much, now. At first it was just acquaintances, then friends, and now he’s lucky to remember the right names of his fiances. He forgets who he loves, but he has never forgotten that he loves them.

He often can’t put a name to a face, but every time he sees their faces he’s still overwhelmed with the depth of his love for them. His James, his Mason, his Sapnap, his sun. His Helga, his Cleetus, his Drew, his Jack, his Quackity, his moon. The celestial bodies to his starry sky. He doesn’t always know their names, but his soul has always known theirs and always will.

It’s a bad day, and he can’t bring himself to get out of bed. It feels large and empty, but he can’t think of anyone who should be there with him. He can’t think of anyone at all, mind skipping between blank spaces and static. He makes a frustrated noise, screwing his eyes shut and yanking on his hair, and then gentle hands are taking hold of his and tugging them away.

He opens his eyes to see a concerned face looking down at him, and some of his tension immediately melts away.

“..Hi,” He murmurs, turning his hand in the other man’s grip to hold on to him in return.

“Hey,” A soft voice answers, its owner trying for a smile. “Bad memory day?”

Karl nods, holding the man’s hands tighter. “..Stay with me?” He whispers, and something in his sun’s face softens.

“Of course.” He answers, climbing over Karl to the other side of the bed and settling next to him. “Would you like Big Q in here too?”

Karl tilts his head quizzically, and his sun falters. “Right, yeah. Our moon, I mean.”

Karl’s face brightens. “Yes,” He agrees immediately. “Him too.”

“Okay.” His sun presses a kiss to his forehead and gets up. “I’ll get him and be right back, okay?” He waits to receive a nod from Karl before leaving, and true to his word is gone no more than a minute.

He comes back with someone else, and the last piece of Karl’s world fits neatly into place. His moon comes and sits next to him, running his fingers through his hair.

“Hey, starboy.” He says quietly, offering a smile that Karl returns in kind.

“Hey, moonlight.” He echoes, leaning into the other’s gentle touch. Something is missing, though, and after a moment he turns to see his sun perched on the edge of the bed watching them with something fragile and loving and so very, very sad in his eyes.

Karl reaches out with the arm on his free side, turning his smile on the third. “Hey, sunlight.” He says, and is rewarded with his sun taking his hand and settling next to him.

“Hey, starboy.” His sun squeezes his hand, and Karl breathes out slowly, content. They’ll have to get up and go about their day eventually, but he wants to hold on to this moment for as long as he can. He’ll forget, probably soon, but not until it ends. Not until it’s over.

He doesn’t want it to be over. He doesn’t want to forget. He wants to be able to remember who he is, where he’s been. He wants to engrave the names of his loves on his heart and in his mind, somewhere deep enough that he’ll never forget them again, somewhere his mind will remember them the way his soul does.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong starboy?”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until there are gentle hands on his face wiping away tears, but once he’s started he doesn’t think he can stop. He sits up abruptly, releasing his grip to swipe angrily at his tears.

Because he is angry, he realizes now. Maybe he’s known for a long time and just forgot, but he knows right now that he’s furious at fate for chipping away at his mind, dangling the promise of being able to fix things, help people, right wrongs, and not giving him a choice in the matter.

“I don’t want to forget,” He sobs, and even through his blurry vision he can see the heartbroken look his fiances share. “I don’t- I want to remember your names, always, not- have to guess from a list of people I barely remember. I don’t want to forget this, the time we spend together.” He hunches over on himself, hands tightening into fists, and he can’t hide the desperate plea in his voice as it weakens. “I don’t want to forget.”

“I know,” His sun says softly, scooting forward and folding Karl in his arms. “I know, starboy. You- we’ll figure this out, okay? Together.”

His moon mirrors the movement on his other side, resting his chin on Karl’s head. “It’ll be okay, Karlos.” He tries, but he can’t quite hide the grief in his voice. “Just take things one day at a time, okay? We’ll be here with you the whole way.”

Karl clings to the men he will always know even if he won’t remember, and warmth spreads in his chest. He’s spent so long off balance, scrambling to make sense of people and places and times, never allowed to grow too comfortable in any one time before he’s gone again. But here and now, in the arms of his sun and moon, he finally feels safe.

* * *

**Five.** _A hug to say it's not your fault_

Puffy raises a hand to shield her eyes from the harsh desert sun. If she pretends enough, she could almost believe the brightness is the only reason for the wetness of her eyes. But she’s not in the habit of lying to herself, and so she doesn’t try to explain away the ache in her heart.

“Papa Puffy?” A voice calls, colored by surprise and delight. Puffy turns, seeing her second son clambering down the scaffolding of yet another giant statue.

“Hey, Foolish.” She offers a wobbly smile, wincing internally as his face shifts to concern. “How’ve you been?”

“I’m alright. I’ve been busy, you know how it is.” He smiles back, but the worry doesn’t leave his carved emerald eyes. “How about you? Is everything okay?”

Puffy winces a little, lowering her eyes. “..I’m alright, Foolish. It’s just that- Dream, he..”

“Little duck? Is he alright?” Foolish is frowning now, and his alarm only grows when the nickname nearly sends Puffy over the edge, tears forming in her eyes once more. “He isn’t dead, I would have felt it. Papa, what happened?”

“He’s in prison.” Puffy finally chokes out, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Pandora’s Vault. He- he’s been doing terrible things, Foolish. Hurting people- manipulating  _ children _ \- I couldn’t just do nothing, but now he’s- he’s in the prison and I helped put him there.”

She presses her hands to her face in a futile attempt to stop crying, and Foolish puts a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know what’s been happening,” He starts hesitantly. “But it seems like you did the right thing. For the people he’s hurt, and for him. It’s.. probably better for him to be somewhere he can’t hurt anyone else.”

Puffy nods, but her heart isn’t in it. “..Yeah. Probably.” She rests a hand on Foolish’s, taking comfort in the familiar chill of his metal skin that never seems to warm no matter how long he spends in the desert. “I just.. I tried to raise him to be kind, and to value other people. Where.. what did I do wrong, Foolish? Where did I go wrong? He’s gone so far from the values I tried to teach him..”

Foolish frowns, pulling her into a comforting hug and rubbing her back as she sobs on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Papa. You raised him with love, taught him to value what matters as best you could. He took that, and made his own choices. You're not the one to blame.”

Puffy sighs, pulling back and smiling shakily. “Thank you, ducklet.”

Foolish nods in return, his smile much brighter. “We can still visit him, right? Remind him of what he’s lost sight of. Just because he needs to be locked up doesn’t mean we have to give up on him.”

Puffy reaches up and smooths Foolish’s metal hair, something proud in her expression as she looks at him. “You’re right. He’s still our family, and we shouldn’t give up on him.”

Foolish beams. “That’s the spirit, Papa Puffy! Want to come see Foolish Jr.? He asked about you not too long ago.”

Puffy gestures for him to lead the way, eyes soft at the mention of her grandson. “I’d love to see Foolish Jr.” She links her arm through her son’s, and they walk toward the temple together.

* * *

**Six.** _A hug to say you're not alone_

Ranboo’s face burns, but he can’t stop the tears from falling. He knows his scars are opening again, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He and Tommy had- drifted, near the end. They weren’t as close as they had once been, but Ranboo mourns him all the same.

It doesn’t feel real yet. Ranboo doesn’t remember enough to know what it’s like to mourn for someone, and he wonders if it’s normal for it to take this long to sink in and become real. He thinks it might be, since Tubbo seems to be reacting similarly.

He stumbles back in a daze, belatedly realizing that his feet have carried him not to his house by Phil and Techno, but to Tubbo’s house in Snowchester. Maybe it’s for the best, he supposes. He doesn’t think he could answer his neighbors’ questions right now, well-meaning as they would be. And... he wants to see Michael. Hold his son, and be reminded that there is still life. That he isn’t alone.

He lets himself in, closing the door behind him and padding across the room the ladder leading to Michael’s room. It’s harder to muffle his sobs as he climbs the ladder, but he chokes back as many as he can and hopes he’s quiet enough to not disturb Tubbo, wherever he is. He was far closer to Tommy than Ranboo ever was, and however much Ranboo is hurting he’s sure it must be worse for Tubbo.

Ranboo opens the trapdoor to Michael’s room and climbs inside, careful to close it behind him. He doesn’t want to lose anyone else, and he doesn’t think Tubbo could handle another loss, especially so soon. Michael perks up at the sight of him, running over and colliding with his legs in a hug.

Ranboo laughs wetly, crouching to scoop his son up in his arms. He holds him tightly but with care, sitting against a wall and settling the baby zombie pigman in his lap. Michael seems to be able to tell something is wrong, refraining from his usual scampering around and instead babbling inquisitively, tiny hands trying to pat away Ranboo’s tears.

He exhales a shuddered breath at this, ignoring the slight increase in pain from the tears being smeared around his face. Michael wants to help, and that alone is enough to warm Ranboo’s heart. He holds his son close, closing his eyes and pressing their foreheads together.

The trapdoor opening and closing sounds, and Michael squeals happily and runs to greet his other father as Ranboo lets him go, eyes still closed. Footsteps approach, and then a weight leans against his side and a head rests on his shoulder. Without looking, Ranboo reaches out and entwines his hand with Tubbo’s, squeezing gently.

He doesn’t hear crying. Somehow he doesn’t think it matters. Whether Tubbo cries or not, whether he’s still in denial or has moved to another stage of grief, it doesn’t really matter in the end. What matters is they’re here, and Tommy isn’t. Tommy is gone, and they’re still here. They have to grieve, and then figure out how to live again. He swallows hard at that thought and squeezes Tubbo’s hand tighter. Michael runs up and climbs back into his lap, wiggling to a comfortable sitting position against his chest.

“I wish Michael could’ve met him,” He whispers, immediately regretting it and clearing his throat.

Tubbo just nods. “...Yeah. Me too.” He laughs a little, a shaky sound. “He would’ve been such a bad influence. Taught him swear words and everything.”

Ranboo sniffs, letting go of Michael momentarily to gently dab at the worst of the water on his face with his free hand. “Oh god, can you imagine? He’d probably get Michael to call things pogchamp and say weird things about women.”

The two share a sad smile, until Tubbo’s face crumples as he loses control of the tears he’d restrained. Ranboo reacts immediately, tugging him into a hug with him and Michael and holding him tightly as he cries.

The small family doesn’t gently hush each other, doesn’t whisper reassurances neither of them believe. They just hold each other and cry, united in their grief, and somehow that’s enough.

* * *

**Seven.** _A hug to say I missed you_

Tommy opens his eyes to darkness. Not quite, more like nothingness. There’s just endless nothing stretching for what very well might be eternity, and he has a moment of realization.  _ Oh. I’m dead, aren’t I. _ If that’s the case, then that means-

“Tommy..?” A horrified voice asks from behind him. Tommy turns to see Wilbur standing there, a hand over his mouth and eyes wide. “You- you aren’t supposed to be here for years yet, what happ-”

“Dream.” Tommy interrupts flatly. “Dream happened. Beat me to death or some shit.”

There’s a spark of fury in Wilbur’s gaze at that, but it doesn’t scare Tommy. It’s not the fear masquerading as anger from Pogtopia. That’s the righteous anger Tommy remembers from the revolution, the kind that had Wilbur looking at something wrong, something unjust and saying  _ How am I going to fix this.  _ It’s reassuring, actually, in some strange way.

But mostly, it cements for Tommy that this is real. He’s really dead, and his brother is standing before him looking like he’s about to either burst into tears or commit arson, starting with Dream. His brother, who he last saw committing assisted suicide and last heard saying he was proud of Tommy, is right in front of him.

Tommy follows his instincts like he always has in life, sprinting toward Wilbur and practically tackling him. Wilbur’s arms wrap around him in return naturally, and as Tommy buries his face in his brother’s chest he realizes the smell of smoke and gunpowder that hung around Wilbur constantly in Pogtopia is gone.

Wilbur’s hand smooths the back of his head, gently hushing him as he cries. He thinks there might be tears landing in his hair, but it’s hard to tell and quite frankly not a priority at the moment.

“I missed you,” He chokes out, hands clutching the back of Wilbur’s jacket tightly. Wilbur hums sadly and his arms tighten around Tommy in return.

“I know, Tommy. I missed you too. I’m sorry for leaving.” Wilbur is trembling, Tommy realizes, and he pretends not to notice. “I should’ve- I should’ve been there, Tommy, I- I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there to help you.”

“You should’ve,” Tommy agrees quietly, eyes burning. “You should’ve stayed, and I’m- fuckin’ pissed about that one still, Wilbur, but-” He has to stop and swallow hard, closing his eyes before forging on. “But I missed you.”

Wilbur makes a strangled sound, and Tommy knows he understands. He clings tighter, hand moving from Tommy’s head to cup the back of his neck comfortingly.

They don’t leave each other’s side the entire time Tommy is dead. Wilbur always has an arm slung over his shoulders, or a hand in his, or resting a horizontal elbow on his head to lord his freakish height over Tommy, even if he has to stand on his toes to do it because of how much Tommy’s grown. The touch comforts both of them, reminds them that they’re real.

“He’s going to bring you back,” Wilbur says at some point, sitting on the ground with Tommy leaning against his side. Tommy stiffens, and Wilbur sets down the cards he’s shuffling and puts an arm around his little brother.

“I don’t want to go back,” Tommy whispers.

Wilbur looks at him, something sad and understanding in his eyes. “I know, Toms. But he won’t let you stay, not yet.”

Tommy pulls his knees to his chest, scowling. “Can’t you at least come with me?”

“I doubt he’ll revive me too, especially if it’s something you want.” Wilbur doesn’t sound particularly disappointed.

Tommy sits bolt upright, turning to a startled Wilbur with gleaming eyes. “And what if it’s something I don’t want?”

Wilbur catches on quickly, his eyes widening. “You mean... trick him into reviving me by asking him not to?” He laughs a little, then, running a hand down his face. “You know what, sure. It’s not like I have anything to lose if he doesn’t, and I’d love to see the look on his face when he realizes you outplayed him.”

Tommy grins. “Then what are we waiting for, bitch?”

Wilbur snorts. “Okay, child. First off, you should make the void sound horrible. Painful, or something.”

“Like what, a paper shredder?” Tommy means it sarcastically, but his eyes light up a moment later. “Oh shit, that’s actually- I am incredibly brilliant actually, Wilbur. The void can be a fuckin'- paper shredder but for souls or whatever.”

“That works.” Wilbur nods, watching his little brother with a soft expression that he hastily replaces with amusement as soon as Tommy turns toward him. “But just you not wanting it might not be enough incentive. Make it sound like I’ll help him escape, or something.”

“What, like you’ve been spending all this time coming up with evil plans instead of playing fuckin' solitaire?” Tommy teases, and Wilbur reaches over to ruffle his hair.

“Yeah, you insufferable gremlin, like I’ve been making evil plans.” He rolls his eyes, but he can’t disguise the fond smile on his face.

“Hey, I am not a gremlin!” Tommy protests, jabbing a sharp elbow in Wilbur’s side. “Call me sir, bitch! Call me sir!”

“I’m not calling you sir, you absolute child!” Wilbur elbows him right back, and their planning devolves into playful squabbling.

They don’t have much longer together, and both of them know it. There’s no guarantee that Dream will be fooled into reviving Wilbur, or that the Book will even work at all. But until the harsh light comes to tear Tommy away, the two brothers will stay huddled together.

**Author's Note:**

> me? touchstarved as fuck?? absolutely not i dont know what you're trying to imply
> 
> ...jskfdg ok maybe. maybe a little. i got the chance to see a friend yesterday and hugged them for like maybe a fully twenty seconds it was a little overwhelming ngl :' but i feel like the lack of touch is more noticeable now, whereas i could mostly ignore it before skgahdf
> 
> i think it's sorta bc physical touch is my love language sgkf,,, :' like any hugging i write will automatically be vv comforting because that's what touch is like for me (except when i go into like sensory overload or smth but other than that)
> 
> anyway that's why the pandemic has sucked so much for me personally, i don't really care abt having to stay home that doesn't bother me, it's just that going to a public school for highschool meant i was finally getting like. a decent amount of physical touch and i could finally just like. sit leaning against someone w/out getting overwhelmed and then everything shut down so the pendulum swung all the way back over and then some :''
> 
> ANYWAY did not mean to get that personal sjkfdbhg thanks for reading! hope u enjoyed :}


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